


The Truce of Abominations

by wargoddess



Series: Bran's Dreamer [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Bran as Viscount, Dark, M/M, May/December
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:29:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few months after "The Peace of Dreams", Bran has a new assistant in the Keep. There are dangers inherent in loving a somniari... just as there are in loving a Viscount. A Templar Canticles side-story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truce of Abominations

     He woke as another body slid into the bed and wrapped long strong arms 'round him.  A warm heavy head came to rest on his shoulder.  "Don't be angry."

     Coming more awake, Bran smiled and did not bother opening his eyes.  If he looked, he might see the telltale signs of the Fade, and he preferred to think that they were in the real world.  This never seemed to matter to Feynriel -- dreaming, waking, it was all the same to him -- but it mattered to Bran.  "What have you done, then?"

     Feynriel did not answer, which meant that he actually had done something, because he never lied to Bran.  "Will you be with me?"  He pressed closer, lifting his head and letting his breath caress Bran's throat; Bran felt the stroke of his long hair, unbound as Bran liked it.

     Ah, yes, and now Feynriel was trying to distract Bran, which worked only insofar as Bran was willing to allow.  And since it had been a long, wearying day, and he was an old man with a beautiful young lover offering the most pleasurable of distractions, he supposed he was willing enough.  "You know I detest euphemisms.  We may _have sex_ if you like."

     Feynriel smiled -- Bran could always feel that, dreaming or waking, the room _brightening_ just a little -- and immediately moved to straddle him, taking Bran's hand and lifting it to his own lips.  "Will you love me, Bran?  No matter what?"

     Surprised into opening his eyes, Bran focused on him.  In the dimly-lit bedchamber Feynriel was a thing half real, all broad shoulders and farmers' tan and bog-standard peasant in body.  In face he was lean bones and long hair and overgenerous nose, as befit a castoff child of the Dales.  Yet somehow all the mismatched bits of him fit together to make a whole that was perfect in its ethereality, and Other in a way that Bran had never been able to define.

     And he was Bran's, all the mismatched, half wild, half mad bits of him. 

     On impulse Bran sat up, sliding his arms 'round Feynriel's waist and kissing his chin.  "Stop asking questions to which you already know the answer, you fool."

#

     When the morning came, Bran rose with the dawn, leaving Feynriel a-dream in their bed as he went about his morning toilette.  The servants would find Feynriel there -- he slept more than most people -- but they knew better than to speak of it, and Feynriel would leave for his own quarters when he woke.  It was the talk of Hightown, he'd heard, that the Viscount was fucking his new young aide, assumably as a condition of the boy's employment.  That wasn't the truth of the matter -- in truth it had been Feynriel who'd demanded Bran's favors, in exchange for nothing that had meaning in this realm -- but the rumors kept Feynriel safe, so Bran had made no effort to quash them.

     It was somewhat disconcerting, then, when Captain Aveline greeted him at the door of his office that morning with, "Did you sleep in your quarters last night, Viscount?"

     "Yes," he said, surprised into honesty.  And then, because he firmly believed that people should be discouraged from ambushing him with questions like that, he added, "Not that there was much of _sleeping_ involved, at least not for the first few hours.  Why?"

     Aveline's face reddened as it finally occurred to her that she'd been too forward.  Thankfully, she recovered by moving on to more interesting topics.  "Did you know there's a dead assassin up on the roof?"

     "Hnh, no," Bran replied, raising his eyebrows and trying to do a quick tally of which Kirkwaller nobles might've been stupid enough to try such a thing.  Could he afford to hire a retaliatory assassin now, before his autumn tax income?  Probably; he'd have to check the books later.  "I didn't think anybody hated me that much -- lately, anyway.  Well, which of your Guards should I commend for protecting my person?"

     "None of them," Aveline said, looking impossibly grimmer.  "Looks like the woman -- an Antivan Crow, we think -- just fell asleep, and never woke.  A heart attack, perhaps, though she was young and seemed healthy enough.  Luckily for all of us."

     _Don't be angry._

     Oh.

     "Viscount -- "  Aveline sounded uncomfortable now.  Bran threw a sharp look at her, then beckoned for her to follow him into the office.  The walls and floor here, at least, had been underlaid with cotton batting to reduce the chance that someone might overhear anything said.  Once there, Aveline took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.  "I'd like to assign you a pair of bodyguards.  I know you've refused before -- "

     Bran sighed.  "Because it would weaken my position, Guard Captain, as I explained to you before.  I am already dangerously vulnerable as such things go.  Everyone in the city knows that I serve at the pleasure of the Knight Commander -- which, granted, isn't exactly a new situation in Kirkwall.  But this iteration of it is particularly _fresh_ , and I'd prefer not to remind everyone that I have my own enemies and Cullen's too."

     "You will have no enemies, Viscount, if they kill you."

     Painfully true.  But Bran sighed and sat down at his desk, running a hand over his hair.  "I already have a bodyguard, Guard Captain.  My apologies for not informing you."

     Behind them, quietly, the door opened.  Aveline turned, tensing, but it was only Feynriel, carrying in a tray of tea and a sheaf of papers under one arm, and she relaxed.  Everyone had gotten used to Feynriel coming and going; as the Viscount's aide and seneschal-in-training, it was his job to be unobtrusive, and he was uncommonly good at it.  He wore a heavy brocade tunic over a soft, loose nobleman's robe, which disguised the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his legs.  And he'd taken to wearing his hair loose, wrapped only in a twine of ribbon and draped over one shoulder.  Visitors saw a slender, kind-hearted young man of grace and serene smiles, who seemed almost too delicate for the demanding role Bran had given him, and who was surely being taken advantage of by his rapacious superior.  Everyone pitied and underestimated him.

     "A freelancer?"  Aveline frowned and folded her arms.  "Viscount, I should have been informed -- if only so that my Guardsmen don't interfere with whatever your bodyguard has to do."

     "I prefer to keep my secrets, Guard Captain," Bran said smoothly, nodding as Feynriel set the tray of tea down on the clear side of his desk.  Feynriel glanced at Aveline, who shook her head, so then he poured tea for only the two of them.  "If you will recall, Viscount Perrin -- Dumar's predecessor? -- was killed when his own Guard Captain chose not to defend him from the Templars.  Not that I blame them, mind you; I remember Perrin, and he was insufferable.  But the lesson does stick in my mind."

     Aveline stiffened in affront.  "Perhaps the lesson is actually that Viscounts should _avoid being insufferable_ , my lord."

     Bran couldn't help smiling.  "I have always liked you, Guard Captain.  Thank you for reminding me of why."  He accepted the cup and saucer that Feynriel handed him and took an appreciative sip.  A single lump of sugar and a drop of milk, just as Feynriel knew he liked.

     "Then you do not mean to tell me who this freelancer of yours is?"  He could almost hear the scowl in Aveline's voice.  "I take no responsibility if this person is ever killed by my Guards."

     "An acceptable risk," Bran said, "but at this point I don't think it's likely.  I've had this bodyguard for three months, after all, with no one the wiser in that time.  And now you have seen his work."

     He knew that would be enough.  Aveline was naturally suspicious; it was why he'd had her promoted to captain.  "Three months?"  At once her gaze went to Feynriel, who stood in his customary position just behind and to one side of Bran's chair.  Bran didn't bother looking at him, because he knew full well what Feynriel would be doing:  smiling in that placid, disarming way he always did, and sipping tea.

     Aveline's eyes narrowed, though there was as much perplexity as suspicion in her gaze, and after a moment she shook her head in apparent dismissal.  "Very well, Viscount.  We're taking care of the body now, and we'll increase our patrols around the Keep.  I pray that your freelancer remains so competent."

     Bran nodded and dismissed her.  And as soon as she'd closed the door on her way out, Bran pushed back his chair and turned to face Feynriel.  Feynriel immediately set down his tea and knelt, head bowed, and Bran's feet.

     "Lovely boy," Bran said, reaching out to stroke his hair.  He loved Feynriel's hair, braided now; when they were alone together, Feynriel wore it down for him.  He put his fingers under Feynriel's chin and lifted his face.  "You've saved my life; don't bow to me."

     "You aren't angry?"  He'd coached the boy on hiding his facial expressions, but Feynriel had not yet mastered this completely; his eyes flicked over Bran's face, searching and anxious.

     "Why would I be?"

     Feynriel looked away, one lock of hair falling over his face in an artful way that Bran was sure he hadn't practiced.  "My old master.  In Tevinter?  He said... that everyone fears somniari, eventually."

     And Feynriel's old master had said more than that, no doubt.  _You can trust no one but me_ , at least, and probably a bit of _You deserve someone who can understand you_ , and more.  Trying to manipulate the boy into staying with him, working for him; Bran would have put money on this.  No one could force a somniari to do anything he didn't want, and trying was a potentially deadly enterprise.  But for all his great power, Feynriel was still just a young man, with all a young man's needs and fears, and there would always be something to exploit in that.

     Bran shook his head.  "I have a more-than-adequate appreciation for _subtle_ killers, my boy, surrounded as we are by artless brutes.  The assassin:  is that something you learned in Tevinter?"

     Feynriel shook his head, keeping his gaze turned away.  "The old Dalish Keeper told me it could be done, long ago.  I heard the assassin dream of killing you, so I stopped her dream."

     And stopped _her_ , in the doing.  "No doubt a more humane death than what she planned for me."

     Feynriel nodded, slowly, and by this Bran knew there was something else. 

     "I have done it before," he said, very softly.  "For you, Bran.  For the city, if it was something you needed done."

     "You -- "  At this, Bran blinked.  _Oh_.  That meant Dougal Gavorn, that odious little dwarf who'd tried to blackmail him...  But dwarves didn't dream!  And Lady Everford, who'd nearly driven the Champion's half-mad brother into a murderous rampage...  And that Antivan raider captain who'd been in the city, setting up a slaver warren...  "I see.  Hmm.  Perhaps you shouldn't do things like that."

     "It bothers you."  Feynriel's shoulders slumped.

     "A little, perhaps," Bran conceded.  They did not lie to each other.  "If only because it makes me think you do not trust _my_ ability to manage such tiresome little nothings on my own."

     "No!"  It startled Bran, the alarm that suddenly flowed over Feynriel's face.  "You are the only person in all this world whom I trust.  In _every_ way!"

     _Oh, my sweet boy_.  Troubled, Bran touched Feynriel's lips with a thumb.  "Don't be foolish.  I would knife my own mother if it would gain me something, after all."  Danger here, oh so much danger.  The temptation was so great.  It would be so easy to say the right things, mould him in all the right ways --

     Feynriel's jaw tightened as if he heard this thought.  (Actually, Bran was fairly certain Feynriel heard most of his thoughts.)  "You are a good man," Feynriel said.  He sat up on his knees, cupped Bran's face, and kissed him.  His mouth was soft and warm, his breath light on Bran's skin, and for a moment Bran felt himself adrift, unreal.  As if there was no one else in all the world but the two of them.  As if what Feynriel said was law, because he'd said it, and reality bent itself to his will.

     But this was not the Fade.  The moment passed, and Bran sighed and pressed his forehead to Feynriel's.  "If only that were true, my boy." 

     Feynriel pulled away, frowning as he searched Bran's face.  Whatever he saw there, hardened his own.

     "I will make it true," Feynriel said.  His voice was soft, but hard-edged; his fingers tightened just a little on Bran's cheeks.

     "Silly boy."  Bran took his shoulders and squeezed them.  There was a lump in his throat and he did not know why.  He had to fight the urge to pull Feynriel into his arms.  "Oh, my dear, foolish child.  You cannot make gold out of lead." 

     _Not for me.  Don't do this for me, of all people._

     But Feynriel wrapped his arms 'round Bran's waist and rested his head in Bran's lap anyway.  Stubborn.  So Bran threaded his fingers into Feynriel's hair, and sat back to contemplate his good fortune.  He deserved none of it.

#

     Bran liked Cullen as well as he liked anyone; more than most, really.  Certainly an improvement over Meredith, if only because Cullen's insanity was predictable and easy to manage.  Most of the time he was _Cullen, Knight Commander of Kirkwall_ \-- forthright, principled, kinder and more open-minded than he would admit.  Occasionally, however, he backslid into _Cullen, Survivor of Kinloch_.  That meant a dangerous time for everyone, but Bran had learned to work around it.  He simply avoided certain subjects in conversation, kept hidden certain activities of the crown.  Doubtless Cullen noticed, but the man was intelligent enough not to pry into what he did not want to know.  For that alone Bran respected him more than anyone else in Kirkwall.

     "There is no getting 'round it," Bran said, bracing himself inwardly.  Predictable insanity -- which it was sometimes necessary to risk.  "We must at least _consider_ an agreement with Tevinter."

     "No," said Cullen.  But he sipped the tea that Bran had offered him, which Bran took as room for negotiation.  When Cullen truly meant to be stubborn, he grew very still:  a mannerism he shared with his more hot-tempered husband Carver Hawke.  For once, Bran wished it was Hawke here and not the Knight Commander.  For all his boorishness, Hawke would at least listen to reason on this.

     "Lines of opinion are hardening in Val Royeaux," Bran explained, reaching deep for patience.  "Our spies there report that even officials who claim to sympathize with mages are turning against us.  Their compassion stops at the possibility of no longer keeping mages as chattel under Chantry control." 

     And Cullen had stopped sipping tea, his jaw tightening.  Damn the man.  Bran sat forward.  "There is talk of an Exalted March on Kirkwall, Cullen."

     "There is always talk of an Exalted March on Kirkwall."

     True enough.  "It's _who_ is talking, and _to whom_ , and _how often_ , that matters."  Too many people who mattered, talking to too many who had once been too sensible to listen.  "Many of the mage groups have embraced your Declaration as a rallying cry.  The message cannot be unheard, but Val Royeaux _will_ make an example of the messenger, do you not see?  They will send an army here, and if we cannot fight them off they will _kill us all_ , probably, because a sacking is cheaper than an occupation.  We. Need. _Allies_."

     Cullen did not answer at once, instead steepling his mail-gloved hands and flexing the fingers, just once.  Aside from this, his whole body, even his face, had gone very still.  Yet even with that warning, he was unprepared for the question Cullen asked.  "Is that your aide's suggestion?"

     "My -- "  Bran sat back, blinking in shock.

     And then he was furious.

     "It was not," Bran said, tightly.  "Though if it had been, I would have commended him for possessing the good sense that seems to have completely vacated your person."

     The muscles in Cullen's jaw flexed, and his gaze was suddenly very hard.  "I know what that boy is, Bran.  Have you forgotten that he was in the Circle once?  He is older than when I last saw him, stronger, stranger, but I remember how he was _snatched bodily into the Fade by demons_ \-- "

     "Whom he defeated -- "

     "You don't know that, Bran."

     "No, I don't, but then it is _your_ job to tell when someone is possessed, is it not?  Just as it is _my_ job to govern this city -- do you truly think I would hire a Tevinter spy as my aide, unknowing?"

     Cullen's nostrils twitched.  "He could be pretending affection in order to blind you to his true purpose."

     Oh, that was simply _enough_.  "Do you really think me in thrall to a demon, Cullen?  Or do you simply find it unlikely that anyone would want me without ulterior motive?"

     Cullen was a kind-hearted soul when he wasn't seeing demons under every rock.  As Bran had expected, he flinched as he realized he'd caused offense.  But instead of apologizing, he temporized.  "Bran, it is well known that ambitious men can fall prey to demons easily -- "

     "No," Bran said through his teeth, pushing to his feet, " _stupid, prideful_ ambitious men fall prey to demons, and I am neither.  But you are _most_ welcome to run this city by yourself if you think so little of me, and I wish you joy of it until the Divine hoists you up by your heels from one of the Twins." 

     With that he snatched the iron circlet of the Viscount from his brow, threw it onto the desk so hard that it bounced and nearly slid off, and was halfway to the office door before Cullen recovered himself enough to react.  Then he grabbed Bran's arm, and it was only by an Andrastean act of will that Bran managed not to yank his arm away.  Cullen was far stronger; trying would just make Bran look like a fool.  But he glared at Cullen's hand so fiercely that Cullen grimaced and released him anyhow.

     "Have you something to say to me?" Bran asked, narrowing his eyes.

     Cullen's mouth twitched, and under other conditions it would've been amusing to see the war between reason and irrationality in the other man's face.  Instead Bran turned to face Cullen and deliberately stepped close enough to make him uncomfortable, holding his eyes until finally Cullen looked away.

     "My apologies,"  Cullen said at last, though this was clearly a struggle for him.  Bran could almost hear his teeth grinding together.  " _Viscount_.  I meant no insult to your judgment."

     "Or my lover."  Bran spoke each word slowly, enunciating carefully.  He had never raised his voice in his life and he never would, but he meant to see this done right now.

     "Do you love him, then?"  Cullen asked this softly, lifting his chin in challenge.

     "That is none of your business unless it affects my ability to govern this city, and I assure you it does _not_.  Unlike, say, _your_ romantic liaisons, which have disrupted Kirkwall on more than one occasion -- "

     "Maker's Breath."  At last Cullen stepped back, flushing in embarrassment as he did so.  "I meant only to help, you realize -- not only as a Templar, but as a friend, if you will allow me to presume.  And I meant no insult to your lover," he added, when he saw that Bran had not moved from the office door.  "I'm sorry.  There."

     "And you will allow me to send an envoy to Tevinter, to sound out possible alliances?"

     Cullen scowled, but Bran had him now; after a moment, Cullen sighed.  "...Yes."

     It took a moment longer for Bran to master himself enough to move gracefully back to the desk.  His hands were still clenched, but thankfully Cullen did not notice, and he wrapped them firmly around the desk chair's armrests as he sat down again.

     Cullen sat too, crossing his legs and letting out a long uneasy sigh.  "You are a vicious opponent in battle, Bran, even if you've never wielded a sword in your life."

     "I had better be," Bran said, coldly.  "I'm the Viscount of Kirkwall."

#

     He was still angry that night, glaring up at the ceiling skylight as he lay in bed.  Then between one blink and another the skylight was occluded as Feynriel's face appeared above him, shadowed and lined with worry.

     Bran pulled him down, abruptly aching.  The strength of Feynriel's arms around him was a balm and a goad, transforming his anger into need.  The taste of the boy's skin drove him harder, higher.  With Feynriel in his mouth he felt powerful, completely in control as he made the boy writhe and whimper and beg; with Feynriel inside him he could relax at last, letting someone else worry about making sense of the world.  He did not want gentle loving this time, and so Feynriel gave him what he craved:  hard, staccato thrusts and a punishing pace and sharp teeth set deep in the meat of Bran's shoulder.  He pushed back against the boy and did not bother to muffle his own cries, or to pretend that it did not hurt.  He needed the pain.  And when Feynriel's fingers wrapped around him, gentle at last, he finally let the anger go, sobbing a little as he came into the boy's hand.

     Afterward they lay facing one another, breathing together without touching, which Bran found that he needed almost as much as the roughness before.

     "I thought nothing could make you angry," Feynriel said, at last.

     Bran shook his head.  "None of the petty things that make others angry, certainly.  I am angered by _special_ petty things."

     Feynriel smiled a little, but this was fleeting.  "The Knight Commander," he said.  Thoughtful.

     "No," said Bran, though he himself had contemplated poisoning the man.  Twice.

     "He troubles you."

     " _Everyone_ troubles me at some point or another."

     Feynriel sighed; Bran felt this against his lips.  "You fear making me a monster."

     Oh, for the Maker's sake.  Bran sat up on one elbow.  "You _are_ a monster," he said.  Feynriel went still.  Not in anger like Cullen; his eyes had gone wide and hurt.  Bran shook his head and cupped the boy's face, shifting closer.  "And I'm glad for it, because I am far, far worse.  No one who was not a monster already could endure me."

     "You aren't -- "

     Bran put a finger on his lips.  "Never lie to me, my boy.  You've been in my dreams.  You know full well what sort of man I am."

     And Feynriel fell silent, because it was true.  When he tried to look away, Bran pulled him close and pressed his face into Feynriel's hair.

     "I cannot stop you from killing my enemies," he said into that soft, golden warmth.  "I'm not stupid enough to try.  And my own hands are bloodier than even you can dream; do not ever fear that I will think less of you for doing such things.  You are a shining, glorious thing, compared to me."

     Feynriel made a sound of protest and tried to pull back; Bran held him in place.  He needed to say this, before his courage -- and what little honor he had left -- deserted him.

     "But do not do these things _for me_ ," he whispered.  Feynriel froze, and Bran drew a finger along the edge of his ear, making him shiver.  "If you do, I..."  He would not lie.  "I'll _use_ you.  I won't be able to help myself.  I'll make you the weapon that so many others want you to be, and it will taint everything between us that should remain wholesome."

     He sat up then, and Feynriel looked at him, searching his face with furrowed brow.  Bran touched the boy's mouth, his throat, the divot between his collarbones.  So much power, wrapped in so much innocence.  Such a sweet, beautiful thing to destroy. 

     And there was a part of Bran that would _enjoy_ destroying him, if he ever began.  He could even make Feynriel enjoy being destroyed -- at least, for awhile.  Blind his dreaming eyes with pleasures beyond imagining, dull his suspicions with obfuscation, lie to him again and again and again until he no longer knew love from manipulation and dreams from nightmare --

     No.  _No_.

     Feynriel was staring at him.  And was the boy afraid?  Yes.  That was good.  Mages should always fear corruption.

     But after a moment, Feynriel only said, "Will you love me, Bran?"

     Oh, sweet Maker.  He did not deserve this.

     "Yes," Bran replied.  His voice shook.  His chest ached.  "I will love you -- and _only_ love you.  I will never do _more_ than that."

     Feynriel's mouth pulled to one side, less than a smile, but his eyes were brighter than they should be, tears unshed.  He lifted a hand to stroke Bran's hair from his forehead.  "Don't tell me things I already know, you fool."

     Then he pulled Bran down into his arms, and Bran relaxed against the warmth of him, and they rested, safe from enemies without and within.

**Author's Note:**

> Hadn't really meant to write more with these guys, but lo and behold, my muse attacked. I've now worked this continuity into that of the Templar Canticles, loosely; we'll see if it matters if I ever write anything more about them. Apologies for the melancholy/dark mood of this. It's just that I think Feynriel is a scary dude whether he's possessed by demons or not, and Bran -- well, in the game, Bran *is* sort of terrifyingly ruthless compared to Viscount Dumar, and he didn't get that way by being gentlehearted. As a Viscount, I think only Cullen and his own good sense would prevent him from being an utter despot. And Feynriel, now.


End file.
